The View
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: Lit, oneshot. He told her that he loved her. He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.


**A/N: **It's my birthday. And this is my present for you.

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The view from the bridge had always been her favorite.

To the right, there was the school, slightly obscured by trees and pathways. The school was old, as old as Stars Hollow, partly because Taylor never refurnished anything and partly because it gave off the small-town-charm vibe. From that angle, with the wooden planks leading to the sparse forest and then clearing for the building, it looked magical; a deserted Western movie kind of thing.

To the left, there was a dirt path leading into town, which looked as small as a dollhouse from the secluded area. She liked to watch the tiny people walk around, stopping to talk or venture inside one of the shops, hundreds of familiar faces that she could never recognize from there.

When she sat on the edge, looking to where the sun was, which was the way she always sat, every since she started coming, there was water. Blue, blue, blue; reflecting clouds or haze or stars, maybe swiss-dotted with rain or snow, depending on the weather. It wasn't deep, she knew, not just because she had once been told so by someone who would know, but also because if you squinted far enough into the dark pond, there were rocks dulling and pebbles gleaming and silver guppies streaming quietly through.

She didn't look behind her, instead choosing to keep her gaze on the steady horizon. Occasionally her stare would flicker to a passing flock of birds, or to the fairy tale town or the abandoned school, but mostly she would look and wish that everything were as simple as a straight imaginary line separating this world from everything else there was.

She had buried her secrets there, surrounded them with the noiseless buzz of contentment and the faraway laughs of her townspeople. She had buried her secrets along with her hopes in the water that eventually met the willow, where her hope had started, and the bridge, where it had ended—where it would always end. She buried her lies with her truths, many of which she couldn't tell the difference. She had spent half of her life living a lie, and never knowing it, and the other doing the same with awareness.

There was one fleeting moment of truth, and, ironically, she had spent more time covering herself with lies to protect this newfound happiness, hoping that when she was completely hidden she would be free; she would be real and tangible and there would be not just a pond to watch and a horizon to gaze and a bridge to walk but a million more lives to live and worlds to visit.

It made sense to her that the bridge was where it should begin to end. The symbolism made her lips curl, but she could taste the actuality of her thought. The bridge was not just a bridge, it was a bubble, a room, a nation, a planet—it was somewhere and nowhere and everywhere. Just as the willow was a picture frame for beginnings, the bridge was a telethon for truth.

When he walked to her, after so many years, it didn't surprise her. She kept her gaze, as she always did, on the horizon; on the endless seam of light and dark, of promises and heartbreaks. His voice was a growl, echoing in her head as such a sound that could only come once and could spend forever locked away inside the water. His voice was a memory, a vision, a ghost, but he was as real as the fish below her and the trees around her and the people so very far away.

He told her that he loved her. He loved her. He loved her. He loved her. He wanted to be with her forever and ever, for as long as the horizon ran, for as long as the world was round, for as long as her thought-trains when he said that he loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

She was not naive. She was not the same girl she used to be, living in an ever-growing web of lies, living buried alive in a grave unmarked, unvisited, and unfound. She was living a lie so much deeper that she couldn't smell the dirt around her anymore, nor see the faces that she had once thought to be so beautiful (the faces that used to believe in her) from the place where she now resided. She wasn't worth his love, however much he may love her.

He told her that he needed her. Needed the sound of her voice all the time, the blue of her eyes and the brown of her hair. Needed the thoughts that ran round her head, needed the closet of skeletons that never seemed to stay when she told it to. Needed her soul, her face, her mind, her crown, her sigh, her laugh, her tears, her screams, her heart.

She told him that she loved him. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him. Loved him more than he could ever know, more than he could ever think or breathe. But she could not give him this love, because sure as there was a dirt path to the town, there was a dagger to her heart, and it had been used too many times to begin again. However much she may love him.

He walked away. Because fixing a broken heart was like changing the tide, or pausing the sunset, or cracking the horizon. It was as close to impossible as he knew, and, though he would never forget, he had to go on. Without her soul, without her laugh, without her heart. He would have to go on, however much he may love her.

The view from the bridge had always been her favorite.

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**END**


End file.
